The Trivial 3 The nightmare (2)
by esther.tseng.81828
Summary: This story is based on the Final Book of The Maze Runner Series, after all the Immunes moved into the new place. Thomas still couldn't live out of the nightmare of the Maze, and Minho's running away was more devastating. When he woke up scary and terrified, what would Minho react?


Thomas had no idea how it ended up like this. He always tried so hard to tell himself that the worst part was passed, that everything eventually turned out to be fine. But it was obviously an misunderstanding.

He was back inside the Maze, and he hadn't even noticed how or why he did that. The walls kept grinding, moving all around him, with the clicking and tinkling vioce of the Grievers' movement coming from nowhere.

Thomas felt his hand sweating, his head dazzling. The Maze seemed to swirl around him, and though he had only been a ruuner for a few days, he had this strange certainty that here was exactly the place Alby once sat unconsciously against the rocky wall, on which he then be tied up.

I am gonna get outta here, thought Thomas, but how? And who would I get out for?

He turned around, trying to take in the whole surrounding. His palms felt burnt, and before he knew it, there was a thick string of vine in his grip. His neck was tickled by someone's heavy breath.

"Minho!" he called out without thinking twice, "Don't loose it, Minho, hold on tight!"

A sudden horror invaded his heart. He looked over his shoulder seeing Minho's face smeared by blood and mud, pure terror perching in his eyes. No, no no no no no don't do this to me Minho don't you do it—

"Minho!" Thomas cried out as Minho let go of the vine and pushed hard on his back, shoving him forward. A devastating smell penetrated his nostrils, made him want to vomit. The familiar sound of Griever whirring and clinking thundered above his head, and as he was pulling away from the wall, Thomas felt his heart bleeding, by the moment he saw Minho ran incredibly fast, all long gone.

Thomas struggled and fought hard, kicking the clenching claws on his feet, his throat raw and croaked because of the screaming, his head haunted by the intimidating thought: He abandoned me. Once again.

With the last strand of strength, Thomas wriggled himself free from the curtain which tangled around his shoulders and neck and opened his eyes.

"Minho..." he muttered with a scratchy voice, yet no one answered, "Minho?"

The sky was deep blue with a bit of purple in it, a sign of the dawn, from the spot Thomas laid, without stars. The shack they had built was filled with steady breathing and sparse murmurs from those who were deep in sleep. Thomas started up into a sitting position; he still could feel pain radiated from where the Griever caught him in the dream, his body couldn't help but shivering like a withered leaf in storm, and it took him a moment to realize that his face was wet not only because of the pouring cold sweat. The spot next to him was empty, leaving a shape of body and remnant warmth there.

He struggled off the layer and made himself out of the shack. He could not handle another moment in that small shabby place, at least not tonight. Thomas laid down himself on the grass, his back against the planks.

He felt hurt. Yet he couldn't figure out why. All he wanted to do now was catch his breath and stop weeping.

A boy ran toward him from the forest in front. Thomas could tell who it is without squinting at the particular shape.

"Well, at least it proved one thing," Minho managed to speak when he stopped beside Thomas, panting, "One can never really quit a freaking habit. Shuck it." he dropped down next to him, "Why don't you sleep? Wanna run with me into the woods, huh? You could've tell me that, and I will let you tag along."

Thomas inhaled without a word. It was when Minho finally noticed that Thomas was acting oddly.

"Hell, what's wrong with you?" Minho turned to examine his face, and seemed definitely startled, "Hey, ya all right? Why you—"

"I can't…" Thomas mumbled, "I can't sleep."

"Another nightmare, eh?" Minho said in concern, "I know the feeling, man. As if the freaking Griever was catching right on my waist. Can't breathe, can't say anything. Just want to cry like a pant-wetting baby. Trust me, I know exactly what you felt."

At this second, a thought flashed through Thomas's brain. What would hurt more? The freaking Griever? Or the Minho who turned his back on him?

Thomas took a deep breath. "Why did you run?" he asked. His voice squeezed, as if being smashed by something too heavy to carry.

"Of course I ran, dude, don't be a fool." Minho snorted, "I am a freaking Runner! What—"

His voice plummeted when he made eyes contact with him. The sorrow in Thomas's eyes was misplaced, must be misplaced, and the wane of his skin gave him a fragile impressment, though Minho knew too well that he was tougher than anyone else around here. And maybe that was exactly the question.

"Why you left me there?" Thomas tried to sound calm, but his voice definitely betrayed him, "How could you do that to me?"

This was what Minho afraid of the most. He knew what Thomas implied, apparently. He could deal with the bully Gally or the crazy Crank, he could bear the burning of the lightening and the extreme heat, yet there was one thing in the freaking world he had no solution. When Thomas broke down like this, he didn't know what to do. This was not the first time, but hard to deal with all the same.

"I guess ya don't want to hear the apology." Minho said quietly.

Thomas's breath shattered. He put his head into hands which clenched into fists, trying not to let out the whine, which he thought would like a poor puppy being beaten up.

Minho hesitated. Then he decided do something occupied his heart for a long time. He put his arm around Thomas, squeezing his shoulders, tentatively dragging him closer. Thomas didn't pull away.

"That was a long time ago, dude. Quit reminding me how sissy and shuck-faced I was. I remembered that too well." Minho let out a bitter laugh, "The thing is, I am right here. And I won't go anywhere else. You know that, don't ya?"

Thomas nodded, squaring his position. Minho's hand lingered a little longer on his shoulder before clenched into a fist and punched him playfully, somehow comfortingly, too.

"I thought I had proving that hundreds of time, dude. But I don't say that I am not a shuck-head." Minho said, "It is totally understandable that I pissed you off. And you know that I tried to make it up for you, and I am still trying. Shuck it, I sound so girly."

This statement made Thomas couldn't help but smile. Minho took the expression into his heart.

"So ya all right now, uh?"

"It was just a nightmare, no big deal." Thomas assured to him. "Thanks, shank."

"You're such a slinthead, ya know that?" Minho laid back, leaning against the planks as well, "You force me said those things, you know, I have no other options."

"But I heard you all the same. No turning back."

"Good that, you shank."


End file.
